


when they call

by transvav



Category: Mianite - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mianitian Isles - Freeform, Realm of Mianite, a rewrite that i started that i don't think i can properly finish, i might do a rewrite at one point tho idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:00:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transvav/pseuds/transvav
Summary: it's like waking from a dream.(it always starts with waking on beaches.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	when they call

**Author's Note:**

> i was starting a rewrite but i don't like wherever i was going with it so this is just like a preview of an actual rewrite of isles idk

it’s like waking up from a dream.

he finds no comfort in how the water pushes at his chest, the pressure of the deep sea uncomfortable despite the ease that comes in the dark surrounding him. the water is startlingly warm- always has been, save for the sharp winters when the lakes would freeze over and snow would blanket the pathways leading to and from-

to and from...?

ah, he thinks, no matter. he digs his bare feet into the heavy sand, watching by the barest light as it clouded the otherwise clear water. once it settled, he pushed upwards, feeling the saltwater support his sudden need for air and helping him swim towards the surface. the world gets brighter as he goes, the sunlight finally beginning to reach beneath the waves, blinding him. the further up he gets, the stronger the shifting of the ocean becomes, tugging downwards at him like a cry for help. _come back, captain_ , the depths beg. _please, please come back._

it’s not new to him. to drown is a captain’s death through and through, the sea a siren in it’s own right. to die on land is an insult. to die in the ocean is to die at home, and she is always wanting and waiting and hoping. he holds her favor in many regards. she cares for him, as best she can, he thinks, dragging himself onto a nearby sandbank and collapsing onto the solid ground with slow, heavy breaths. that is what a goddess is for‒ no. the ocean. he was thinking about the ocean. whatever.

the beach beneath him drags up old memories‒ not bad ones, but not good. just things he remembers that float through his mind at feelings and sounds. when his eyes close, it’s like he’s done this before, and he’s sure he has, but something about it feels different. the warmth of the sand, the water lapping at his skin and clothing gently, the rousing touch of the world calling for him to wake up and remember, remember, remember. some deep part of him expects a shadow to fall over his face to block out the sun, expects to hear an accented voice greeting him.

_welcome your face_ , the ghost of the past says, _to the realm of-_

an arrow _shicks_ into the sand just beside his face, and whatever fog of a person was before him dissipates into nothingness along with the rest of the feeling that whatever word came next was meant to be important. when he turns his head, he finds the skeleton standing in the shallows not far off, just enough water to keep it from breaking apart in the pure light of the sun. it draws it’s bow, and fires off another arrow‒ this one he does not hear land, but feels it’s tip brush just enough against his skin, splitting a thin cut across his cheekbone.

the first scar of a new world, he thinks. the arrow was a warning, an incentive. time to get up, captain. prove you can survive. again, and again, for years on end, _prove_ to the universe you are worth the rebirth you have been given. prove to the sky and the land and the sea, to the over, the under, and the end. and when you understand what you are for, be prepared to prove you are worth your faith.

he gets up.

the skeleton has sulked back into the depths, it’s job done. carefully, he scans the horizon for sign of a bigger land mass‒ just at the very edge of it all, where the sea met the sky, is a single raised line of solid land. he sees no shadow of a tree, but land is land, and he has done more with much less. he rolls his sleeves up and the cuffs of his pants, not that it matters by much, and shoves his glasses further up his nose. he dives.

the dolphins join him relatively quickly, pushing him into a streamline that lets him swim just the smallest amount faster without any true exertion. holding his breath is second nature, and sometimes, he thinks, it’s easier than breathing itself. he remembers the feeling of the depths so clearly that it feels like it was normal, down there, dark and cold and endless, with the pressure of the water crushing him further and further. why, he wonders as the dolphins split away from him with chittering song. why is something so dangerous so _familiar_ , so comforting, why does it feel like something he’s forgotten, why does it call to him so? the ocean itself is one thing, but the depths are another. why, when he was down there, did it feel like‒

_“jordan!_ ”

the voice cuts through it all, a familiar thing, like coming home. he knows that voice somewhere in his heart, knows it as his friend, someone he loved, someone he was connected to. he didn’t think he believed in soulmates, but this might be what it is‒ that voice, alone. he does not know if the ache in his heart is one of love like in the fairytales, but he knows he does love the person who has spoken. knows that whoever it is is _safe_.

“is that you, mate?” they say, and he spies a figure that’s green on the beach, dark against the sun washed sands. “it feels like it’s been...”

he never finishes, but jordan knows what he means anyways. there’s no way to tell how long it’s been, not if you don’t remember why you knew each other in the first place. but he takes the hand that’s offered, clammy and unwell, and meets the smile he’s given with a small one of his own. they stand there, on the beach, clasping hands for a long, unsteady moment, until the other surges forward and wraps him in a hug. it feels right, jordan thinks, even if he’s not sure why.

“hi tom,” he whispers. “i missed you too.”

when they pull apart, just briefly, jordan catches tom’s smile flickering for a moment as he looks him over‒ jordan knows he must be a real mess, after all that, and who knows what he’d been doing _before_ he’d woken up at the bottom of the ocean. so where his grip is on tom’s shoulder, he squeezes reassuringly, sending every bit of _i’m okay_ he can to tom with a simple smile, and watches as the zombie’s face lights up again, a spark blazing up in his beady eyes.

“what are you doing here?” tom says, and jordan can almost barely hear it over the crashing of the waves on the beach beside them.

“heard you had a visit,” jordan responds without thinking. “but that you were lacking a crucial entity.”

“who would that be?” tom asks with a smile, but his brows furrow in a sort of confusion that makes jordan think of a parent that watches their child explain something they never could understand‒ an amused sort of complacency, a sad little look of patience. tom is waiting for an answer he thinks jordan cannot give, and jordan faintly realizes he’s‒

not wrong.

the name does not come to him, not right away, but it sits on the tip of his tongue, as do the names of the others. it tastes like sea salt on caramel sour apples, like the petals of a blossoming violet, the bitterness of rebirth and the heavy syrup of a slowfall potion. tears come to the corner of his eyes, involuntarily, and he knows, he _knows_ he should know, should understand. something is missing, missing, missing from him, he swallows thickly around the building breakdown.

“the gods,” he mumbles instead, and feels the shoulder beneath his hand jolt, slightly, in a sudden remembrance. “tom, what were their names?”

“chaos and order,” tom answers promptly, but blinks after a long second, slow and confused. “no- no, that’s what they represented. shit- uh-”

“oh, come on,” jordan presses. “you _just_ saw them, didn’t you? spent your entire life following‒”

“dianite!” tom laughs. “yeah, mate, my main man dianite, the one true god, of course, of course! how could‒” and his next laugh is a little more unsure, a little more unsteady. “how could i forget that?”

“and then there was. um‒ we had, friends. who followed him.” jordan feels some kind of distaste curl when he thinks too hard about the god of order‒ the blue of the water suddenly makes him dizzy, a painful _ache_ when he tries to remember that differs from the ache he’d felt trying to remember whoever it was they’d been missing. it leaves a sour taste in his mouth‒

and now that he thinks about it, the name _dianite_ does, too, but in different way even still. the name dianite is unsettlingly warm in his chest, and leaves smoke on his tongue, and makes him _angry_ in a way he can’t place‒ he’s not usually prone to anger, not like this. it’s unsettling and it makes him uncomfortable because he _knows_ that name, and he’s almost drawn to it. _one true god_ , tom had laughed, and he’d meant it, but jordan...

“mianite, right?” tom interrupts his thought process. “what a bitch.”

“yeah,” jordan says absentmindedly. “yeah.”

“just saw them,” tom laughs. “so who could i be missing?”

jordan hums, and watches the water, even as tom continues to point out everything he’s done, all the little improvements he’s made in his isolation‒ the house in the volcano, the wheat farm and the graveyard. the little island he’d first come upon is to the left of where they stand upon a hill, and tom mentions something about him being able to use that as a starting point, to take what he needs, for now. but still all he can focus on is the way the sun glints off the waves around them, flashes bright white in his eyes and makes him dizzy in a way he doesn’t hate like he usually would.

when he makes it back to that little piece of land, there’s a bow resting unstrung, sticking straight up out of the sand, with a little bottle and a note tucked beside it carefully. it hadn’t been there before‒ and when his fingertips brush against the wood, when he feels that overwhelming sense of something he couldn’t name, and he’s getting so _tired of_ that feeling, he wants to know again what it means.

so that bottle holds a note, the paper worn and soft between his fingertips, the ink faded from the sunlight and, perhaps, age‒ and the words make him smile, lift a haze from his eyes, and the sun seems brighter and his vertigo gets worse, but he feels all the better for it.

“hello, my lady,” he sings on the wind, and the water bites cheerily at his ankles, all the world goes silent save for the lost souls of the end far away and far below.

_oh my captain_ , ianite tells him, and a ghost tucks his curls behind his ear. there is much to be done, here, much to expand‒ a home, a farm, a mine, a temple. whatever he needs to survive, in time, but until then, he relishes in the sound of her voice again, after so long.

_welcome back._

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://transandor.tumblr.com)  
> i'm just having a time. isles is a mess in canon i can do better huh


End file.
